


look how they shine for you

by leitmotifs (orphan_account)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Basically, Fluff, M/M, Stars, shy and awkward first loves, side Louis/Liam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:38:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/leitmotifs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don’t think my heart should be doing backflips whenever you look at me, but that’s what happens. I tell the butterflies in my stomach to go away, but every time your hand brushes against mine, they continue to persist. I sit on my hands so I don’t end up doodling our initials over and over and over again, but somehow the margins of my math book ends up covered anyway.</p><p> </p><p>Or: Niall and Harry and high school and stars and falling in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	look how they shine for you

**Author's Note:**

> title from Coldplay's _Yellow._
> 
> so i know this isn't Ruin or that prompt I'm still working on, but lately i've hit a mental roadblock? and i had to write this to kinda alleviate it somewhat.....??  
> i hope you guys like it anyway ;v;  
> [on tumblr](http://justlogorrheic.tumblr.com/post/60989442810/look-how-they-shine-for-you-harry-niall)

I like you, I think.

The strands of your hair remind me of curlicues, and the first thing I want to do when I see you is card my fingers through them. Your eyes are green like the apples I always see in the supermarket. When we first talk, which happens on the forty-fourth day of our junior year during eighth period at approximately 1:46 in the afternoon, you give me your name and then apologize because you have a tendency to speak slowly.

So I tell you it’s okay, that my name is Niall and I tell really bad jokes. You laugh at that, and when I tell you one of my classics, you laugh even more.

We’re partners for an English project and we’re supposed to be analyzing Hamlet, but we spend more time analyzing my jokes.

At the end of the period, we have absolutely no work done, and usually I would be more worried, but usually I’m also not preoccupied with the way someone’s laugh sounds.

I decide that it’s a good day.

 

 

 

.

I think I like you.

Your eyes are the friendliest I’ve ever seen as they find mine, all the way across the lunchroom. “Niall, Niall!” you’re shouting, waving over to your table.

You already have other friends, three boys whose names I quickly come to learn: Louis with eyes like blue cotton candy, Zayn and his eyes reminiscent of hazelnuts, and Liam’s whose eyes are the color of chocolate.

You introduce, “This is Niall, my English partner,” and that gets me a little bit, because I wonder if that means this is a temporary thing.

A week later, we give our English presentations; the day after that, I buy my lunch, pause by the ketchup station, then start walking towards my table in the back.

Halfway there, your hand comes down on my shoulder. “Where are you going?” you ask, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. It’s a really endearing look on you. “The lads are throwing us a party for passing our presentation.”

And looking back at the table, I see that Zayn, Liam, and Louis have brought various confections, including cupcakes and cookies.

“That wasn’t a temporary thing?” I ask, maybe a little dumbly.

“What wasn’t a temporary thing?” You tilt your head.

I don’t completely believe you, but a table with you and Liam and Louis and Zayn looks far more inviting than my one in the corner.

So I come with you. It turns out that there is an uneven number of cookies. I’m about to say you can have it when you break it in half and offer me a piece.

“Thanks,” I say.

“You’re quite welcome,” you return with a smile. My head spins.

 

.

I think I like you.

The front of my binder is covered with pictures of the constellations. “Did you make that yourself?” you want to know.

We’re sitting on the grass together, waiting for your mother to come pick you up.

“Um, yeah,” I say, because it’s a little embarrassing. I move my arms over it in hopes that you’ll lose interest.

“No, don’t hide it.” You do the exact opposite and pull it away from me. “S’nice. Do you like the stars?”

I love the stars. When things get particularly bad, I like to look at them and imagine I’m there, millions and millions of miles away. But I was once told that stars are for children and that I needed to grow up sooner or later. I don't want to hear those things from you.

I give half of a shrug and say, “I think they’re nice,” and you nod and it's dropped there.

That night, at precisely nine o’clock, I sneak out to the hill in my backyard and watch the stars like I’ve done every night for the past three years. I think of you.

 

.

I think I like you.

But I also think that I’m just mistaking this for gratefulness.

I want to thank you for everything you’ve done, even if you’re not aware of all of them. I want to thank you for giving me somewhere to sit, for laughing at my jokes, for making me feel like earth is a nice planet to be on, for saying my name, for existing.

“Harry,” I start, stop, and swallow.

“Yeah, Nialler?”

“Thank you.”

You look up from your bowl of ice cream. The couch is spacious, but you end up pressed close against me anyway. The movie plays on, but I think I’m paying more attention to you than the moving pictures.

“What for?”

Anything. Everything.

“Nothing.” I scoop more chocolate ice cream into my mouth. “It’s stupid. Never mind.”

“Nothing you say is stupid.” You nudge your shoulder into mine. “You’re welcome – for whatever you were thanking me for, because apparently you won’t tell me.” An exaggerated pout forms on your face.

“Mandy Moore’s singing,” I remind you, gesturing back to the screen and ignoring all your other attempts to wheedle an explanation out of me.

Eventually, silence elapses. It’s a comfortable kind, one that makes me want to smile and cuddle into the arm of the couch – or, more preferably, into _your_ arm.

We watch as they set off the floating lanterns, and I wonder if you can hear the hammering in my chest.

 

 

.

I think I like you.

I don’t think my heart should be doing backflips whenever you look at me, but that’s what happens. I tell the butterflies in my stomach to go away, but every time your hand brushes against mine, they continue to persist. I sit on my hands so I don’t end up doodling our initials over and over and over again, but somehow the margins of my math book ends up covered anyway.

I buy a bag of green apples and pour them into the bowl on my kitchen counter. “I do not,” I tell them. “I do not, I do not.”

High school romances never last, so what does that say about crushes?

I will wait.

I pick up an apple and study its skin. “A shade too dark,” I say to myself, and then, satisfied, I bite into it.

 

 

 

.

But I really, really think I like you.

On my birthday, you’re late to lunch. Halfway through the period, as I’m taking a sip from my water bottle, you magick from out of nowhere and slam a book down on the table.

“Jesus, Harry!” Louis whines, gathering up his spilled M&M’s.

You pluck a red one from his pile and pop it into your mouth. “Sorry I’m late. I was trying to find the art teacher.”

“What for?” I ask, because your appearance is frazzled and it’s kind of a good look on you, messy hair and wild eyes. But I may just be biased, because I think all looks are good on you.

“To wrap your present.” Your tone drops and sounds a little gloomy. Taking a seat, you chew on your bottom lip before finally sliding the book to me. “But there was a substitute, and she didn’t have the keys to the supplies cabinet, so I couldn’t wrap it in anything. Sorry. Happy birthday.”

You didn’t have to do that, I want to say. You didn’t have to go through so much trouble to wrap it, much less get me something in the first place.

But then I look down and read the title and grin.

You notice immediately. “Do you like it?” If I’m not mistaken, you sound a little nervous. I glance up and you’re biting on the nail of your thumb, not-green-apple eyes trained on the book in my hands.

“I love it,” I say. “But I’m offended that you think my jokes need improvement.”

Zayn snorts. Liam takes a thoughtful bite of his muffin. “What’d he get you?” the brunet asks, and you flash him the cover. _Jokes 101_ , it’s called.

You shake your head profusely, curlicue curls swaying. “I don’t think they’re bad, I swear! I think you just need to broaden your horizons.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“And there’s a whole section of knock-knock jokes,” you add, as if to cajole me.

“Okay, I forgive you,” I assent, even though I can’t really be mad at you. I’m smiling before I can help it, and I hope you know how grateful I am. “Thank you, Harry.”

You smile back, dimples showing and everything and the butterflies turn into piranhas. “You’re quite welcome.”

 

.

I think I like you.

“Your hair’s like the sunshine,” you say, the first time we’re drunk together, sitting in my living room. “You’re like Rapunzel.”

“Who does that make you?” The ceiling is pretty. “Flynn Rider?”

You snort, moving to sprawl across my lap. “Here comes the smoulder,” you say huskily, and then you make a face that’s anything but a smoulder.

“And you say my jokes are bad,” I comment, that last word dissolving into giggles.

“You love me anyway,” you say.

There are consequences, written very clearly on a parchment I keep in my mind. Tonight, the alcohol makes the metaphorical edges a little softer, and I have no qualms about running my fingers through your hair. You’ve begun pushing it back, and it no longer falls in a wave across your forehead, but it still reminds me of curlicues.

“I do,” I say. One day, I hope you know that I really mean it.

 

.

I think I like you.

Zayn is going to prom with his girlfriend, a nice girl named Perrie who’s in your physics class. Liam and Louis are going together as gag dates, though you think it’s not completely that.

“Please say I’m not the only one who thinks that’s utter shite,” you say pensively next to me.

You’re watching the couple in question, walking squares around the parking lot. Every once in a while, Liam appears to say something that Louis finds amusing, and the shorter boy bursts into laughs that you can hear all the way from where you are.

“You’re not the only one who thinks it’s utter shite,” I agree solemnly.

“I want to take them by the heads and tell ‘em to kiss already.”

“They’re a little clueless, aren’t they?”

I turn to you, and you’re three months younger but probably a good three inches taller. You’re staring at me thoughtfully.

Your eyes really aren’t like green apples. They’re more the color of the stem of the rose I once found growing on the side of the road.

“What?” I ask, because it’s been thirty-one-seconds-and-a-half now and you still haven’t said anything. You can talk slow but not that slow.

“Nothing.” Before I can say anything, you ask, “Wanna jump out the back of the car and scare Lou?”

“Maybe he’ll jump into Liam’s arms for safety.”

You smile, and your eyes are bright. “Niall Horan, I think you are my soulmate.”

So do I, Harry. So do I.

 

 

.

I think I like you.

“You’re a fucking liar, Ni.”

I almost knock my telescope over from how fast I pull away from it. “Harry?” I ask, incredulous, as you land from the fence.

“You think stars are nice, huh.” You sound smug, walking over to my little table.

I’ve set up camp for the night, complete with my telescope and notebook after notebook filled with charts and patterns of the night sky.

“I don’t know how all of this got here,” I say, but I don’t think I’m trying.

You quirk an eyebrow. “So how long’s this been going on?”

I think for a few seconds. “Since seventh grade, about.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, and before I can tell you _I didn’t want you to think I’m weird,_ you continue, “I think it’s really cool.”

“Really?” I ask, cautious.

You give me a curious look. “Yeah.”

I fiddle with the corner of my notebook. “It never really came up in any other conversations… I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” You shrug, reaching to touch my telescope. “Would you mind if I watched with you?”

Of course not.

“I wouldn’t mind some company,” I say, and you smile, so I smile back.

I don’t mention how I’ve picked out a star for you.

 

 

.

I think I like you.

The following night, I set up my telescope in the backyard and watch the stars. I’m too lazy to record anything in my notebook, so I just opt to watch the sky tonight.

Do you remember how I said I’d wish I could be millions of miles away?

I don’t wish that anymore. I think I’ve found a reason to stay.

 

 

.

 “I think I like you.”

When it finally comes out of my mouth, it’s the seventy-sixth day of our senior year and we’re doing homework together in your room.

“What?” Your head snaps up from your calculator, and I regret it immediately.

“Nothing,” I say as the bats turn into piranhas and start shredding my stomach. “Nothing. I’m sorry.”

My hands are traitors, too busy shaking to pick up my books properly. I drop my pencils once, twice, and finally I just give up and shove them all into my backpack and make a beeline for the door.

“Niall, stop, _wait_.”

Then you’re jumping over the bed and grabbing me and– your mouth is on mine and we’re kissing.

My bag thumps to the floor, and the sound zaps movement back into my bones. I jerk back, not quite away from you, but not as close either.

“I like you too,” you’re saying, smiling.

The piranhas are dissolving. I’d like to say they have morphed back into butterflies, but it feels more like coils of something _warm_ , spreading through my chest.

“Niall?”

 _Stop staring at his mouth and say something_ , I tell myself. So I say, “Knock knock.”

You look at me, amused and vaguely worried. “Who’s there?”

"You."

"You who?"

"I really like you."

A pause.

“What a revelation,” you say, a laugh bubbling up from your throat.

“I know,” I agree, but I’m smiling and my cheeks feel like they could simultaneously split and burst into flames.

You cup the back of my head and lean down and kiss me again.

My eyes are closed, but I’m pretty sure fireworks go off.

 

.

I think I like you.

“I picked out a star for you,” I finally tell you on our seventh date.

We’re lying together on the hill.

You hum in interest. “Where’s it?”

I raise a hand to point at the sky. “That one,” I say, except I’m pointing at a night sky that’s covered with clouds.

You chuckle. “No offense, Ni, but there aren’t any stars out tonight.”

I smile and curl into your side. “It’s because you put them to shame,” I murmur, and at first, I think you didn’t hear me.

Then you laugh, and you’re shifting to face me and your arms are coming around my back and pulling me closer. “You’re cute,” you say, grinning. “You’re really, really cute.”

I wish it isn’t this cloudy, so that I could have showed you your star. But I don’t entirely mind this, either.

 

 

.

“Disgusting,” Louis says when you and I announce it to the table by kissing in front of them. “As if you two weren’t all over each other enough before.”

His smile is affectionate though.

Something in Zayn’s expression says that he’s not really surprised. He says, “Took long enough.”

“You owe me a week’s worth of lunch,” Liam chimes in, looking very optimistic.

“You bet on us?” Your face scrunches up in confusion, and I want to kiss you silly. But the cafeteria has seen enough, and those are the kind of memories I want to keep between us, anyway. They’re special. I hope that doesn’t sound too cliché.

Zayn nods gravely. “And you let me down, Harry,” he grumbles.

“Sorry,” you say, not very apologetically at all. You turn and drop a tiny kiss on my cheek.

Louis makes a noise of disgust.

We both laugh.

 

.

The end of the year rushes to greet us.

I don’t think my memory is very good, but I do remember certain things well, like significant events that happen on significant days.

On graduation day, I remember that approximately two seconds after the closing statement, I turn to you and, under the shade of hundreds of caps being thrown, you kiss me.

I think I like you, Harry.

 

 

.

.

.

“I still remember,” I say over the sounds of the streets below, “which star is yours.”

“I would be very offended if you didn’t,” you say, nudging my thigh with your foot. “But I don’t think you ever actually showed me it.”

I lean into your shoulder and point upwards, at a particularly bright one just a thumb’s nail away from the moon. “That one.”

“It’s a nice star.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. Thanks for picking it out for me, Niall.”

I don’t expect the sincerity in your voice – but it’s there and it makes my heart flutter.

Five years after graduation and we’re sitting on the balcony of our apartment, next to each other and you wearing my socks and me wearing your sweatshirt and the both of us sharing a blanket, I decide I don’t like you at all.

“I love you,” I say, under the stars.

You’re smiling. “You think?”

Under the blanket, my hand finds yours and our fingers slot neatly into each other’s.

I don’t miss a beat in replying: “I know.”


End file.
